


Beyond Recollection

by ADashOfStarshine (ADashOfInsanity)



Series: Into the Beyond [1]
Category: Magic the Gathering
Genre: Agender Character, Appearances from Amonkhet gods, Gen, Origin Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 00:34:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21838348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ADashOfInsanity/pseuds/ADashOfStarshine
Summary: It was but small thing. Pale and fleeting, unworthy of conscious thought. Yet all nightmares start somewhere. All fears are rooted in experience. So from whence came the Nightmare Weaver? And why do they take such delight in other people's torment?A possible origin story for Magic's most enigmatic planeswalker.
Series: Into the Beyond [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1599976
Comments: 5
Kudos: 14





	Beyond Recollection

**It was but small thing. Pale and fleeting, unworthy of conscious thought. Yet that errant trace of recollection passed across their surface thoughts and before they knew it, had brushed up against something cognitive. It had achieved acknowledgement. So, they indulged it. Ashiok appraised the scrap of dream between their talons, like merchant faced with a tawdry trinket. Like a jeweller might peer at an uncut gem.**

\---

These were the dreams of a child. Long lost to the vast emptiness of the multiverse, this child’s world had once been confined to shadowy corners and low stone walls. The light from the furnace could not quite reach the nooks and crannies, pock-marked with figures scratched into the stone. Even as last lights pierced the gaps in the heavy shutters, the workshop never ceased its noise. The beat of sold metal upon the anvil, interrupting the relentless drilling. Closer by, the nattering of aunts, a constant babble as nimble hand thread bead after bead onto long strands of papyrus. Every now again, the child’s mother would rise. Greeting the furtive knocks upon wood, the vizier’s guards, here to collect another gleaming extravagance in gold and jewels. This was a home – to this child, to many in fact. Yet even through this slice of domestic bliss, Ashiok could taste the fear.

Flavoured with grit and snake venom, at first, the child wore terror like a pair of manacles. _Go outside_ , the child’s mother would say. _Go play with the other children_ , the child’s mother would continue. But the child would not, could not, unless forced. For the other children were much larger than they were. Much cruder in their behaviour, much more prone to violence. For their mother’s sake, the child tried. Yet the other children would pull the child’s hair and rip the fine beads off their throat with enough force to choke the child. _They’re just playing_ , the child’s father would say. _Maybe if you were more like them_ , he would suggest. Parents often felt so well intentioned about their young, but, even that love derived from fear. They were afraid, afraid of their child being different. Tormented by the idea that their child would not be one part of a greater whole. What motivated a soul better than terror? The cruelty of the other children, the loss of the child’s homemade jewellery…. And, no matter how much the child prayed to the Gods that the next attempt would earn better results, nothing changed. The child remained afraid.

 _It’s because they’re scared too_ , their mother tried. _Afraid of being thought lesser in the eyes of their friends. Afraid of being thought lesser in the eyes of the Gods._ The child thought about this for hours on end. Days passed, ensconced in the corners of the workshop as wondrous treasures formed all around them. So surrounded by the marvel of creation, the child could not help but craft their own delight – a test, to prove or disprove their mother’s statement. The leader of the other children was the son of a camel herder, a self-proclaimed warrior, as brawny as he was cruel. Gossip told the child that the ringleader was afraid of serpents. If the child could prove that the bully felt fear, that the bully was afraid of showing said fear around his peers… Well, the bully would be no better than the child. There would be no need to grovel or cry before him. The bully would be no greater before the eyes of the Gods.

But where to get a snake? The viziers would milk snakes for their venom in the temple, but no child could simply enter and retrieve one. Frustrated, they squinted into the shadows of the workshop, as if they could see the undulating form of a serpent between two ceramic jars of glass beads. Despite all reasonable caution, they reached out a hand into the gap. Their fingers brushed against something cold, scaly. They flinched but enclosed their hand around the creature, pulling from the depths of jars, a live jet-black snake. It did not hiss at them. It did not open its hood in aggression. It simply stared at the child, miniscule black tongue tasting the air, contemplating its existence with milk-white eyes. The child could not believe their luck. They had a snake, a tame snake, somehow. They thanked the Gods as they went out into the noon-day sun, seeking well-earned results.

Success came with loud cries and the scent of urine upon the sand. The bully scrambled up a nearby statue and refused to descend even as the other children laughed and questioned his bravery. The child allowed the snake its freedom in reward for serving their needs. The last they saw of it was the tip of a tail disappearing into the cool shade beneath the statue. Perhaps it would curl up the God’s visage to torment the bully further. They hoped so deeply.

In conclusion, the child’s mother had been right. The actions of the other children had been dictated by fear, and when that balance had been interrupted, they had turned on each other. Fear dictated power and power dictated society. The child’s eyes had been opened. It was if the workings of the world had been unfurled before them. A scroll no one else had deciphered yet. A secret just for them. So, they read. Sat in the corner of the workshop, or in a shady spot in the market place, they scoured the faces of people passing by. If they watched intently enough, they could see it, hear it, almost taste their fear upon the air. The cruellest seemed to know terror like a friend. The linen-merchant dreamt of beetles, crawling upon her painted skin and filling her senses with their buzzing. The potter lived in terror of his affair being discovered. The camels feared the brand of their master’s ownership. So much terror in every corner, the child felt like they had understood the world’s greater workings. Even as the bully and his remaining loyalists cornered the child on the way home, even as the child’s scalp stung and bled, they understood. To live was to fear. To live well, to hold authority, was to make others fear you. To be without fear? Well, to be without fear, was to be a God.

The child and their parents would visit the temple for prayer, three times a week. Upon the rare chance that a God would tread through their humble street, they would rush outside and join the cacophony of worship. The child would be encouraged to help fill the God’s footprints with flowers. As soon as the God passed, carts would trample the blooms into the sand. What remained was trod even deeper into the dirt by marching workmen. Somehow, the neighbours always found enough greenery to fill each print, producing a fleeting beauty in the God’s wake. Yet now, now the child had found a greater beauty. The sort that could not be harvested by anyone. The snake had been but a start. The first jewel on the thread. Where adults sought to inflict fear on others, there the child would be, to remind them of their own terror. To be the equaliser, the reminder of their joint mortal flaw. They brought forth beetles from the shadows to crawl over the linen-merchant’s skin. A phantasmal image of the potter’s enraged wife. They replicated the heat of the brand, making the camels kick and spit and their master. The child had power, gifted by the Gods themselves, and they were ready to show the Gods what they could do.

They sat on a high pillar; arms full of smoke as they heard the sound of enormous footfalls approach. In the distance, high over the rooftops, they could see the crocodilian form of a God resplendent against the evening sun. They would show their God what gifts they now possessed. Not creating one fear, no, they would invoke every terror in the crowd. As soon as She reached the street, the neighbours would come pouring out of their houses. Each with a dozen different fears to put on display! It would be a work of art! A display finer than any trinket their parents might produce. A show of what divided mortals from Gods, laid out for the Gods themselves to see. The cacophony of terror would be louder than prayer or song!

Yet, no sooner had their God reached the crossroads, then She turned a different route. The child was forced home in disappointment, but knew their moment would come. They loyally went to the temple three days a week. They honed their talent as months passed by in anticipation of their grand display. The locals at the temple became their next unwilling partners. They practiced on the guards, the priests, the merchants, until strange stories began to arise about the neighbourhood. Faulty amulets and weird curses, bad water and odd dreams. This only served to induce more fear. The locals were doing the child’s job for them! Those with guilty consciences became even easier to find. No one was above fear. No one was above anyone else. Everyone was equal before the Gods.

 _Your hair!_ Their mother had exclaimed one day. The child reached for their hair only for a lock to dissipate into black smoke. Their mother gasped and rushed them to the temple. The priests could not understand it. They could do nothing other than suggest ointments often used for those going bald. Strangely, the child could not bring themselves to mind that their hair was turning to smoke. The less hair they had, the less hair the other children could pull. How could they be hurt with what they didn’t have? In a way, this was one less fear to contend with. One less phobia to distract them from exploring other people’s. Their mother tried to cover the gentle stream of smoke with a headwrap and suggested they make some offerings in the hopes the Gods would take pity. The child understood her fear. So, they helped her with offerings of gold and jewels. They sung prayers before they went to sleep. Yet that did nothing to quell the mounting excitement of what they could do, what they would soon achieve. A little hair loss was barely a price to pay for the gifts they had received. Their days were no longer lonely. They filled their free time petting shadowy serpopards, playing with monsters plucked from the nightmares of their peers. They knew, one day, they would be able to show the Gods what they could do. It may take years, they may be an adult by the time it happened, but they would go to sleep each night knowing their greatest offering would happen. The Gods would pass by eventually. It was going to happen. It was _always_ going to happen.

If not for the dragon.

That day, the child’s parents were out. Where, they knew not. They had occupied themselves with a trail of scorpions, tiny shadows before the furnace flame. However, the creatures of the nightmare flickered and died as the child felt something heavy slam upon the roof above. They gave a start, knocking over a dish of beads as they scrambled to the doorway. Outside, people were running, screaming. The terror was so tangible, they could taste it on the air like one of their aunt’s foul perfumes. They ran outside, looking for the source of such overwhelming fear. It was intoxicatingly powerful. Their feet barely scuffed the sand as they followed the sensation like a dog chasing a scent on the wind. Sprinting in the opposite direction to the panicked masses.

They didn’t have to go far.

Looming over a distant temple was a creature so big it blotted out the sun. A dragon with scales so gold they put the finest pendant to shame. The dragon was raining fire on a neighbourhood only a few streets away, but from the fears of their neighbours, it felt like they might be next. The child looked about for their parents, wondering what to do, wondering what should be done. Should they run too? Should they hide? The street around them was empty. Had everyone fled home? The dragon was bringing down buildings! Was it safe to be inside right now?

As they watched, three familiar figures loomed over the horizon. Armed and mighty, they cornered the dragon, three mighty shadows against the sunset. Instantly, the child felt relieved by their presence. The Gods! The Gods would surely save them. They had come prepared, ready to chase off this overly-ambitious dragon! The child clasped their hands in prayer, looking up as the skyline shimmered with magic. Coloured jets of power, beyond the understanding of mortals, boxed in the dragon like a rat in a cage. It was surrounded! The dragon would surely-!

The dragon would…

The dragon.

The Gods.

The crash was enough to cause a fresh chorus of screams. Two enormous bodies scattered across the rooftops. Breaking, shattering layer upon layer of stone, as they rained gargantuan limbs down upon the city. Heavy footfalls made the sand shift and the earth quake around the child. However, they were too transfixed, too horrified, by the massacre overhead to even feel the enormous fingertips, lifting them off the sand and onto a nearby balcony. The first sign of awareness, the first indication that they were in the presence of yet another deity, was terror. The child looked up into unblinking gold features, a feline face often so gentle was now contorted with…

No.

No.

No.

Gods didn’t. Gods couldn’t.

Yet, it was undeniable. They knew fear. They knew terror. They knew what it was like when a being was petrified. And their god, their all-powerful, all-knowing God…. A God who was supposed to be better than mortals, better than anyone, divinely superior to all that worshipped Her! The ability to feel fear divided the mortals from the gods. It showed everyone what should be worshipped and what shouldn’t! They’d known this forever! Believed it with every fibre of their being! Wrapped their whole life around the principle that… that Gods did not feel fear. Gods were perfect. Gods could not be afraid. That’s why they were better than mortals. That’s why they were _Gods_. Yet… Gods had died here today. And now, this god, this deity feared She would go the same way.

She feared. 

Gods felt fear. 

And if Gods could be afraid.

Then why.

Why any of this.

Why did they worship beings like them? Beings who also knew terror. What made a frightened God any better than a powerful vizier? A knowledgeable scholar? Anyone with the gift of the arcane?

What were the Gods really?

A lie? Had they all been dedicating their life to a lie? What was a God? How could these imposters rule when they were no different to the masses? How could they do this? Deceive them for so long? What were they if they became frightened just like any other person alive? It made no sense. It went against everything the child had believed. Yet they knew fear better than themselves. This supposed-God was terrified and-and… She couldn’t be a _real_ God at all.

Hands clasped in the smoking remains of their hair, the child gave an echoing wail. The Not-Deity stopped in Her tracks as She felt the air around her shift, the little building by Her side filling with a pitch-black smoke. Yet, the child cared not for the smoke or Her attentions as suddenly the stone walls around them shifted into sheer nothingness. They saw only darkness, felt only emptiness, as if a hole had opened where their faith had once been. A hole that was swiftly being filled with a power so intense that it burned away at what little doubt they had left. In that moment they knew. They knew what they had loved with all their heart, what they had believed in with all their soul, was not a God. Not the perfection they’d been led to believe. Those Gods were lies, stories. constructs as intricately wrought as their parents’ beadwork. The Gods had fashioned themselves as authority by instilling terror in others. Just like every bully they had ever met. Control through Fear. Nothing new. So disappointingly predictable it was hard not to feel betrayed.

They woke on an unfamiliar shore, the power still burning in their chest with all the ferocity of a furnace. They clasped at the beads around their neck, choking on the smoke still coursing from their scalp. Once their breathing had settled, they were forced to take their bearings. They were somewhere dark, wet and exceptionally cold. Running water rushed about their knees, chilling them to the bone. There was a sliver of blue sky ahead, and audible croaking sounds – birds or frogs perhaps. Everywhere else was glistening rock. Their chest seared in panic. Their heart beat a fanfare as if to alert them that everything was decidedly unfamiliar. Hands shaking amidst wet gravel, there was little they could do but see what came next.

They leant on one knee, intending to rise to their feet. Yet no sooner had they pushed their weight upwards, then they continued to rise. Hovering a few inches above water level, they stared at their bare toes in amazement. This was immensely peculiar. However, out of everything strange here, this development actually felt useful. They couldn’t object to keeping their toes out of the frigid stream. So, they glided forward, repressing the urge to cling onto stone as they went. By the time they reached the cave’s entrance, the fear of falling was proved unnecessary. In the end, so many fears were.

It took a few hours for them to find civilisation, but when they did, they were bombarded with a whole new feast of nightmares. They only had to pick through the town’s greatest fears to know everything about their culture. They kept to the outskirts at first, knowing their strange appearance and constant stream of smoke may cause more trouble that it was worth. However, as they got more daring, distracting merchants out of their wares with apparitions, gleaning the local matters of importance by inciting gossip, people did start to take notice. One woman went as far as to hunt them out, ask them where they were from. It was then, it occurred to them that they didn’t remember the name of the place. They remembered the sands. The buildings. The temples. The false Gods. But not the name of the town. Nor the name of the world.

Or their own name in fact.

Forgetting became something of a habit. The further they travelled. They more they saw. The deeper they delved. The less they ended up knowing. They knew plenty about the areas they visited – their mind was as sharp as it had ever been. They had a perfect memory of all the torment they inflicted on those who could not give them satisfactory answers. Everywhere they went, they brought nightmare to life. Wove such beautiful creations from people’s worst fears and active imaginations. Their treasures were truly beautiful. More so perhaps that the shiny pieces of jewellery they kept on wearing – for a reason they couldn’t quite recall. It was as if, for every piece they made, they expended a little part of themselves to make it. Artisans put their heart and soul into their work, so they saw no reason why they shouldn’t do the same. By the next world they had lost their scalp to the smoke that had so swiftly come to define them. For everything they gained, they lost a little in return.

The priests on the second world were as extremely useless as the first. No one knew what real Gods were made of. Whether or not a real God felt fear. It seemed no one else had thought to question this before. How useless these people were! Even when presented with their worst fears, not a single clergyman coughed up anything productive. They left the second world in intense disappointment and cast their gaze around for other types of worship. So, they skipped like a stone across worlds, seeking out outlandish Gods and their worshippers. Trying to define what a god was at its core. No matter where they searched, no matter how much they left behind, they failed to find the perfect being. The entity worth worshipping – the God without a fear. People worshipped the strangest of things. There was no common route to it, no logic.

The task was certainly not made any easier by the existence of ‘planeswalkers’ – of which they were apparently one. These beings liked to fashion themselves as gods. Yet planeswalkers most definitely felt fear. In fact, planeswalkers tended to be so traumatised that their nightmares were delightfully powerful. They enjoyed delving into the minds of fellow planeswalkers, extricating terrors the likes of which they had never seen before. Terrible beasts made of metal or too many tentacles. Oh so many painful pasts, plenty of ruined childhoods and fearsome examples of law enforcement. The mind of a planeswalker was like exploring whole new worlds in a matter of seconds! So enjoyable, they often forgot what they were looking for in the first place.

Having smoke for eyelashes was so inconvenient, they were glad when their eyes finally dissipated away. It was much easier to research without the smoke getting in the way of their vision. Now that was over with, they were free to focus on what they were looking for. Which was…. Something about how Gods were made? They weren’t sure where their journey had begun or even why their quest had started. However, they were determined to know exactly what made a God tick. On one plane, they had found a whole race of faeries that harvested dreams from people like nectar from flowers. They had learned the spell from a particularly chatty clique and was finding it quite pleasurable. Rather than delving all the way in, they could just pluck strands of memory from a sleeping victim and keep them for later use. Yet even this wonderful new method brought them no closer to an answer.

Over time, they often found themselves putting their task aside. Gods would not cease to exist in their absence. It was far more enjoyable to pursue the pleasure of their craft over chasing non-existent results. With so much practice, they had grown in power. Their reach was getting longer. Their darkness could now swallow villages whole. Leaving hundreds cowering through restless nights, hapless towns were left tormented by the contents of their own minds. Ever more intricate, ever more beautiful, their nightmares were truly works of art. And they were never without supply, never alone, never left bored when they had so many minds laid out before them. Where this existence began or where it might end, they could not say. Had they been from somewhere once? Most likely, everyone started somewhere. Did they have a label? A name? A greeting? Had there been others to greet them once? It mattered not. All they knew was the joy in torture and the pleasure in a creation well made. If each mind was an unread tome, then the multiverse was the greatest library of all. So onwards, to summon terror and dispel Gods. What did it matter what once was? To look behind them was to see nothing but smoke.

\---

**Such a small thing. Pale and fleeting, unworthy of further thought. No answers lay here. No foundation on which to research. No terror to bring them joy. Ashiok released the little scrap of recollection, watching it dissipate upon the streams of thought that swirled amidst the smoke and ash. A little skin crumbled off their cheek, but they paid it no mind. There was nothing for them here. Not even a solitary mind to bring them delight. You would think the gaps between life and death would be full of fear. But no, time to venture a little deeper in this plane they had become so fond of. Surely, by now, they were due a feast.**


End file.
